Happenings in Paradise—The Paris Bulletin

On Friday, Norma arrived at school late, after a frustrating morning at the Jason’s, where she stayed as a boarder, doing various chores to earn her keep. Everything seemed to go wrong. Mrs. Jason was still in bed when she woke up, and the girls were playing grown-up in the kitchen, pouring cereal into bowls and spilling milk, the baby wet and cranky in his crib. Mr. Jason had long gone. An easy-going man, he often helped Norma with the children on those mornings when his wife stayed in bed, postponing her responsibilities until the very last moment.

Norma wasn’t surprised—this happened a lot. She couldn’t help but compare Mrs. Jason, her loose style of mothering to her own mother, who rose early and performed her endless work with a saintly stoicism. This morning, her resentment grew until it simmered just below the boiling point, as she washed and changed the baby and made breakfast for the two girls. It was too important a day for these pesky chores, she fumed, as she picked up the baby to take him to his mother’s room. But Norma loved him, and her annoyance lifted as he smiled and kicked, and soon she was calm enough to finish her duties. Gradually the morning took shape, and before she knew it, she was on the road, hurrying toward the long, low building, rising like a monument to modernity at the end of a street of boxy, dispirited looking houses.

When she arrived at the school, Norma realized with a stab of panic that no one was in the hallway, the polished linoleum floor was a sea she had to cross to her first class, in full view of any adult who might come along. Arriving at the closed classroom door, she stood there for a moment, watching the teacher through the glass panel, and assessing her chances of entering when he was looking the other way. But it was too risky, so she tiptoed to the back door of the classroom, and tried the doorknob. Not locked! God is on my side, God is on my side, she chanted in her head, then slipped into an empty desk at the back of the room.

At lunch, Norma went to her home room, and settled in her desk, nibbling her sandwich and observing the other girls with studied disinterest as she toyed with her carton of milk. She felt mildly superior as she saw girls playing a sexually charged game of snatching an item that belonged to a boy and taunting him until he chased after her amid squealing and laughter. Norma had no desire to enter into the game. It looked innocent enough, but she knew about the covert messages being sent, and she preferred to remain aloof and above it all.

A bell marked the end of the ‘lunch’ period, when the students were required to stay in their home rooms. Her schoolmates streamed out, headed for the gym and the school grounds, where they would pursue various alliances and sports activities. She was relieved that she could now find a corner in the library or an empty classroom where she could read until class time.

Norma’s anxiety mounts

By the second period in the afternoon, Norma’s anxiety became unbearable, as she visualized the newspaper being distributed at the pharmacy, the grocery store, and a half-dozen other places in the village. People would be picking it up, and reading her story, liking it, or not liking it, laughing about it, or maybe ignoring it. Every possibility was painful to her, every alternative a torture. She regretted writing it. If she could, she would go around and find every paper, and rip out her story and discard it.

Self loathing rose in her throat as she entered the pharmacy on her way home, and picked up a paper, cradling it in the crook of her arm, folded innocuously into a science textbook. When she arrived at the Jason’s, no one was home, so Norma had the house to herself. She didn’t open the paper until she was in her room, the curtains drawn, the door locked. She scanned the thin green sheets. Front page, not there. Next two pages, not there either. Flipping quickly to the fourth page, she saw her byline, “Happenings in Paradise”, and there they were, the words she had laboured over for so many hours. They were exactly as she had written them—nothing edited, nothing changed. At the very end, her name in small capital letters, “Norma Coucher, Junior Reporter”

Norma felt a ping of excitement in her chest. She allowed herself a little jig in her tiny room, almost knocking over the lamp at the edge of the bed. Tomorrow, her article would be a topic of discussion as the teachers and students gathered in town, meeting in the stores and on the street. People would know her name. On Monday, her classmates might point her out. The enormity of this suddenly dawned on her. She would rise from the anonymity of her life—a girl from the country, working for her room and board so that she could go to school.

Did she really want everyone to know this? Her father, so steeped in pride and denial, would not be happy about it. Why would she want to make a spectacle of herself, he would say, and bring attention to the family! People would want to know where she came from, who her family was and how they lived. She imagined bringing a guest home, maybe Betty Fraser, or June Nilsen. Seeing the kitchen through their eyes, the simple oil cloth covering the table in the middle of the room, the wood stove dominating the corner, her mother shy and embarrassed. Unlike Doreen, who knew Norma and loved her, they would judge. She couldn’t stand it.

A balloon bursts

On Monday morning, Norma realized her mistake. With a mixture of relief and alarm, she soon saw that the weekend had erased all of the momentum her story might have had. Monday morning brought the things that Mondays were known for—discussions of the Saturday date, homework that was overdue, boys who phoned, boys who promised to phone but didn’t. Nobody took one glance at her. No one said, “You’re Norma Coucher, aren’t you?” At the end of the day, she was the last to leave her classroom. She usually did this anyway—hanging around pretending to finish board work, opening her loose leaf binder and feigning an urgent assignment.

So she didn’t hear Miss Lesleyfield until she was right there, close to her elbow, peering shortsightedly into her eyes. “Where did the school board find her,” people wondered, “She’s so odd, so peculiar.”
“Norma,” she was saying, “I read your article. It was clear, concise. You reported everything that happened at the town meeting in such a realistic way. That’s not always easy to do.”
“And not only that,” she added, “Your editor, Mr. McCaskill, called me. Thanked me for giving him your name. He might be gruff, but he likes you. You should know that.”

Relief surged through Norma, but still, she squirmed under her teacher’s sympathetic gaze, willing Miss Lesleyfield to step back, or at least not come any closer. She bent her head slightly, just enough to shield herself from the weight of compassion in those eyes. Then Norma realized something new: other people were misfits too, with wounds that didn’t always heal, just because you grew up.

To be continued July 31